


where i go (when i go there)

by jongdayze



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Diverges from the game at some parts, F/M, Mystery, Romance, Slow Burn, Sonder, Thriller, canon AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jongdayze/pseuds/jongdayze
Summary: "Tell me honestly, is it a crime to want to live?""No."She wishes he could say it with less distance in his eyes."But they were never alive in the first place.""You were never alive in the first place.""That is correct."And she hates him, then, just a little bit.[Connor/Original Character, slow-burn set during events of Become Human. Rated for scenes of violence and discussed violence, including mentions of past child physical and sexual abuse. Chapters are labeled with trigger warnings.]





	1. no more memory anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: (slight) graphic depiction of violence, lots of swearing (including a racial slur)

**15 AUGUST 2038  
DETROIT, MICHIGAN**

Petra Darlen has no reason to believe that her life is anything but completely routine. 

She knows that her alarm will always go off at 5:30 AM, and she'll be staring up at her water-stained ceiling once more, blinking and trying to recall the sweetness of the dream she'd been pulled out of.

She never does, but that's besides the point.

The quick shower she takes will always be cold, either because the heat's broken in her building again (it's what she gets for living in fuckin' Forest Park) or the assholes in apartment 32B next door have decided to run the taps all hours of the night again for reasons known only to them.

It occurs to Petra occasionally that it might be worth it to just use the showers at work, but that thought passes before she's even begun to dry and dress herself.

She'll turn on the television as the coffee brews, idly switching between ITM and Channel 16 at a whim. Nothing interesting's ever really happening, maybe an occasional report on a football game that happened the night before, or the latest software patch from CyberLife, but more often than not it's just the weather. 

Clear skies tonight, is what they're saying. You'll be able to see the stars.

Petra stirs too much milk and sugar into her coffee, takes a sip, and sighs.

_Stars, my ass._

It's always usually around 6:20 AM when she hops into a taxi headed for downtown. The ride is always too quiet, even when she turns on the radio, tinny noise instead of human conversation. She'll flip through the stations at least three times before settling on some song she'll forget by the time they arrive, in ten minutes if traffic's good.

No driver means there's no one to tip, and she's slamming the door and standing in front of the DPD Central Station by 6:30 AM, on the dot, every single day.

Petra Darlen's life is a well-oiled machine. Every minute accounted for, nothing out of place. There's nothing to indicate that that will ever change, either.

Up until now, at least. 

* * *

The moment she steps into Fowler's office, she can already tell what his answer's going to be.

"Still a no, Darlen."

"But Captain -"

"You can still get plenty of work done here in the station. Margaret's out on maternity leave for the rest of this month, and we need someone to get started on inputting that batch of new hires into the system."

"Wow, maybe I should get knocked up too, I could get paid to do nothing  _and_ get to stay home."

The glare Captain Jeffrey Fowler levels at her maybe isn't  _completely_ unearned. But for the love of God - she's a detective, and a damn good one at that. And it's been nearly a month since the incident, and there's no reason why she should be sitting on her ass doing data entry instead of her actual job. 

Of course, Fowler's heard all this twenty times before and more, and still refuses to budge an inch.

Stubborn bastard.

"Petra," he says, folding his hands on top of the table and leaning forward, and that means she's definitely in trouble, because he just used her first name and now has that look in his eyes, like he's on the opposite side of a parent-teacher conference and is about to tell her that he's ' _not angry, just disappointed'._

Not that she's ever been present at a parent-teacher conference, but she imagines that a lot of teachers look like Fowler does now, when faced with their pet pupil fucking up.

"You could have very well been suspended. I know that desk duty may seem like a chore, but it's the cards you've been dealt. You'll get your gun and badge back once your case has been thoroughly investigated."

"That could take months."

"So it may." 

"And nothing I say is going to change your mind."

"It is highly unlikely." 

Petra gives a sigh of frustration, and leans back in her chair, tapping a perfectly manicured finger against the metal arm. Looks anywhere but Fowler, her hazel eyes scanning the medals on the wall, the map of Michigan covered with sticky-notes, the (fake) potted plant in the corner. 

Even in this fairly large office, with walls made of floor-to-ceiling glass through which she can see the rest of the station buzzing with life, she still feels strangely trapped. 

"Bureaucracy fucks us all over once again," she finally says with a tiny, bitter laugh. 

"If I recall, you fucked yourself over by refusing to wait for backup."

"And what was I supposed to do? The prick had already beat the kid half to death, was I supposed to wait until he'd finished the job?" She knows she's walking a thin line already, but the mere memory of it makes her blood boil. "Was I supposed to wait until he'd moved onto the sister?"

"You had orders not to engage."

"I made a decision, Captain."

"And now you're facing the consequences of that decision." 

She can't help the actual laugh that escapes her lips then, slightly incredulous. "If the department wants detectives who only follow orders instead of their instincts, why not just hire a bunch of androids? I'm sure it would save taxpayers tons of money."

Fowler says nothing. He just studies her silently, making no indication as to whether he's caught onto her sarcasm or not, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

"I mean, we've already got those PC and PM models running around. Not to mention the damn drones."

"So we have."

There's something slightly odd about the neutrality of his tone, something that Petra can't quite put her finger on. This entire conversation is odd, an unwelcome disturbance to the ordinary pattern of her life.

Still, she persists. 

"You know I did the right thing."

"I can't say until the review board comes to a conclusion."

"Fuck the board. It's not like I'm suspended."

"For Christ's sake, Darlen, would you like to be?" 

That's it. There's the line, and Petra's shoulders slump. She's not going out into the field today, that's for sure.

Fowler just shakes his head and takes a deep breath, waves his hand to let his computer screen flicker to life in-between them. An obvious dismissal.

"Just give it time." His voice is patient now, fatherly, almost. "Believe me, Detroit's not going anywhere."

* * *

So, it's back to her desk. Back to the stack of files on her desk, waiting to be typed up and indexed and shredded, because that's all she's good for now, some kind of secretarial machine.

Jesus, how it stings. But she swallows her complaints, not because she knows that a good half of the station is staring at her, having witnessed her argument with the captain through the glass walls of his office (seriously, whoever designed this station was a  _moron_ who obviously never considered privacy a priority) and is waiting to see if she'll have a meltdown or maybe throw a chair or two.

Something she is determined  _not_ to do, and instead Petra sits down at her desk like a good government employee, twists her long dark hair into a halfhearted bun, and grabs the nearest file.

She's a good three feet deep into the hell that is tax deductions when a voice pulls her out of it, smug and simpering.

"Why not leave your hair down, baby? It's easier to pull that way." 

When she looks up, Officer Gavin Reed is leaning against her desk, a smirk plastered across his face. 

She just rolls her eyes and focuses back on her work, only pausing to throw out, "Do you ever wash that leather jacket, Reed? That's the third time I've seen you wear it this week, it must be disgusting by now." 

"Yet, all the girls  _still_ seem to want me."

"If you mean those Tracis down at Eden Club, don't flatter yourself. They're programmed to want you."

"You little shit."

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid you must reach at least a level three in personal hygiene before attempting conversation with me. Do your fucking laundry." 

She can tell as soon as the words leave her mouth that it wasn't the wisest thing to say, but  _fuck it_ , she's tired and pissed and Reed's the cockiest motherfucker in this entire department, possibly the cockiest motherfucker in the entire world without the balls to back it up. 

So she doesn't even flinch when he slams a chair down right next to her and sits down, making sure to get right up in her personal space and conveniently where no superior officer can hear him when he whispers, "Fucking stuck-up chink."

It's always nice to know that the advent of androids didn't make good old fashioned racism entirely obsolete.

Petra throws him a syrupy-sweet smile. " _Wow,_ you're so funny, haha.  _Pok gai."_  

"The fuck did you just say to me?"

"Go die in the street."

She is 99 percent sure the only reason he doesn't deck her, right there in the middle of the Detroit Police Department Headquarters, is at that moment the glass doors leading to the lobby slide open and Lieutenant Hank Anderson stumbles in, hair unwashed and clothes wrinkled, blinking sleepily up at the fluorescent lights.

When he sees them, Petra sitting and Reed halfway out of his chair, Lieutenant Anderson simply grunts and raises a hand in greeting. 

"You wanna complain about personal hygiene?" Reed sneers, turning away from the spectacle to hiss in Petra's ear. "Look who just crawled out of a bottle of Scotch."

"I heard that, you son of a bitch." Lieutenant Anderson calls, slamming his keys and wallet on his desk.

"Christ, did he really drive all the way here like that?"

Instead of answering, Petra simply shoves Reed out of her personal bubble and turns back to her work.

To his credit, Reed doesn't push it any further, instead deciding to stalk off towards the interrogation rooms to find someone else to harass. He knocks his shoulder against Lieutenant Anderson's as he goes, a muttered apology that doesn't really sound apologetic at all. Lieutenant Anderson stumbles back but catches himself, his body still loose and languid, with the heaviness of someone who's been drinking for a good hour already.

Petra lowers her eyes. 

What the lieutenant, who outranks both her and Reed both, does in his spare time is none of her concern. 

What  _is_ her concern is the rookie cop who can't fill out a goddamn W-4 correctly even though the form practically holds your hand through it. At this point, she almost wishes she had her gun back, if only to be able to shoot herself with it. 

"Been there, done that, kid."

She blinks. Did she say that out loud?

Lieutenant Anderson plops into the chair at the desk across the aisle from hers, the smell of booze radiating off him in waves. He gestures with his hand at the mound of paperwork stacked up on her desk, the one she's barely made a dent in even though it's already noon. 

"Desk duty's a bitch, ain't it?" He tilts his head back and runs a hand over his chin, the expected scruff of an overworked detective starting to bloom into something more Santa Claus-esque. "No matter how 'technologically advanced' we get, there's no fail-safe for stupid."

He suddenly reaches over and taps the form she's holding, at least three required boxes left empty. Petra drops it back onto the desk and leans back in her seat, suddenly exhausted.

"I don't know why they don't just have them fill these out online now."

"They gotta give us something to do before those plastic piece of shits take all our jobs."

"It's not fair."

Lieutenant Anderson raises an eyebrow at that, and Petra immediately wishes she could take it back. "Fair? Whoever said that life was fair?"

"No one," she mumbles.

"That's right. Don't be looking for 'fair'. Not in this department, not in this city."

"But I mean, come on, Lieutenant, if you were in my shoes, what would you have done?"

There's a moment of silence as Lieutenant Anderson ponders it, tilting his head back and forth as if sloshing the idea around in his mind. He closes his eyes, and for a moment Petra wonders if he may have just fallen asleep.

"Eh. I'd have shot the bastard, too."

Something like triumph blooms in Petra's chest, and she moves another stack of files to stare down her superior officer. "So you can tell Fowler I was right and get me back in the field."

"Like hell I am," he snorts, gripping the arms of his chair and hoisting himself up with a grunt. "We've all made mistakes, Petra, and we've all had to do our time. This is your turn."

Petra crosses her arms over her blouse and sulks as Anderson stands and stretches, reaching for the ceiling and arching his back.

"Aw, come on kid, don't be like that. It'll be a month, tops. You'll be back before you know it. Anyway..."

He grabs his keys and wallet off the desk and saunters towards the door, only a little more steadily than he had before. "I'm off to lunch."

"You literally just got here."

"And I'm literally starving, and I literally outrank you, so don't tell me what to do."

The doors slide shut behind him. 

Petra fights the urge to laugh.

* * *

It's around 7:25 PM that she's seriously considering packing up and going home, when the report comes over the scanner.

_"Calling all units, this is Robin Five, we have a code 1001 and possible code 909, requesting assistance."_

A kidnapping and possible murder.

_This is it!_

Petra nearly hurdles over her desk (and the other three between her and the scanner) to be the first to grab to the mic.

"Robin Five, this is Dispatch, 10-4." She says, using her calmest and most professional voice, ignoring the fact that Fowler is gesturing angrily and frantically at her from where he stands in his office to hand over the damn mic. "What is your location?"

_"1554 Park Avenue, 10-23."_

Someone near her (Miller, she thinks) hurriedly scribbles the address down. It's an apartment downtown, not that far away, maybe a twenty minute walk. Shorter if she runs. 

Petra glances up again at Fowler, who is now exiting his office with an expression that distinctly reads,  _don't even fucking think about it._

"Detective, don't -"

_"Dispatch, we have reports that perp is a WMAD, 10-6."_

That stops the captain dead in his tracks. It stops everyone in the general vicinity too, all staring at the scanner in a mix of shock and...

Fear?

"An android..." Miller whispers, his pen frozen in midair. "But that should be impossible."

"A deviant," someone else mutters. 

Petra swears her heart stops beating, just for a moment. 

The scanner crackles with static, as more voices from other units fill the room.

_"This is Robin Two, 10-27."_

_"Robin One, standing by."_

" _Robin Five to Dispatch, we have one confirmed PNB, perp still inside the building. Requesting SWAT assistance."_

One pulseless non-breather. And a request for SWAT, which must mean...

Petra lifts her head, capturing Captain Fowler's gaze with her own. She's not begging, not at all, it's just that they're looking at a possible hostage situation, and she can't do nothing. She can't just sit there. She can't.

Fowler says nothing, just leans over and takes the mic out of her hands.

"Robin Five, this is Dispatch. We're sending a squad over, 10-6."

_"10-3, tango."_

* * *

"Captain -"

"I said no, Detective."

"I'm trained in negotiations. I'm not suspended, you said so yourself, the only thing stopping me is your say -"

"Goddammit, Darlen, what part of  _NO_ don't you understand?"

She's never seen Fowler quite like this. And Petra distinctly remembers the Christmas Disaster of 2036. Never this angry, never this flustered, never this out of it, even though this has to be far from his first hostage situation.

That's how she knows something about this has to be different.

Fowler leans back against his desk, taking a deep breath. He scrubs his hand over his face, looking suddenly very old and tired, when he says, "We're sending in an android unit to negotiate."

...what.

"What?" Petra breathes, not quite sure she's heard him correctly. "You're sending an android to negotiate with an android?"

"You were right, Detective," Fowler replies, somewhat wryly. "Why not bring in the machines? Saves taxpayer dollars, they have no choice but to follow orders, and if someone gets hurt it won't be the boys in blue."

"I was  _joking,_ oh my God!"

She actually cannot believe this. She refuses.

"It's been in the works for a while now. CyberLife released a new prototype earlier this month, an RK-800 model. It was supposed to report to the station here within the next few months, but the commissioner thinks this is the perfect time for a test run."

She cannot believe this. Petra shakes her head, dark locks spilling out of her bun and falling over her shoulders. It's been a long day and she probably looks like a mess, but still less of a mess than this plan. "This is insane."

"I suppose we'll see." Fowler pushes off from his desk, heads over to the door, and holds it open for her to walk through. "In the meantime, however, if you'd like to man dispatch, I suppose I can allow it."

Petra can recognize it for what it is. A consolation prize. Second-place, a close-but-not-close enough. She knows she has more pride than that.

She takes it anyway.

* * *

"Captain Allen, what's the situation?"

" _Your fucking negotiator's yet to shown up, that's the situation. We've got the thing cornered with the girl outside, but that piece of crap could jump from the rooftop any second!"_

"We have ambulance drones standing by and a helicopter on the way, if you'd just -"

_"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT! My men are ready to step in, just give the order!"_

"Your order is to wait for the negotiator to arrive, Captain." Petra feels like this may be way above her pay-grade, and she may have crossed a line or two, but fuck it. She hates dealing with Allen. He's twenty pounds of toxic masculinity in a ten pound bag.  

And all she gets in return for her earnestness is a loud  _"FUCK"_ and a dial tone. He's hung up. Lovely.

She sighs and taps her earpiece to disconnect from Allen's channel and reconnect to the scanner, shifting her position from where she's sitting on the top of her desk, and glances over at the television, where ITM is broadcasting live coverage of the situation. 

It doesn't look good. They have a crystal clear view of the android. A PL-600, a family domestic model, if an old one. He -  _it_ looks frantic, deranged, the little girl (Emma Phillips, they've been told) hoisted in his arms with a gun held to her head, standing on the ledge of the terrace, a twenty-story drop just a step away. There's also been reports of shots fired and at least two officers down over the scanner.

Petra closes her eyes for a moment. It's going to be a long night. Most everyone else has either left to go home or assist at the scene, it's just her and Miller and the night janitor. She's forgotten how much she hates being on the end of a line, feeling helpless like this. 

An android. They'd send in a fucking  _android_ before they'd send her. A part of her wants to laugh a little at the irony, another part of her wants to cry. But she can't. So she just bites her lip, until it threatens to bleed, and then she stops, because she can't have that either.

All she can do is just sit and wait, apparently. 

God, what torture. 

_"...Dispatch, do you copy?"_

_...what the hell._

It's not Allen's voice. It's lower, softer, more boyish. The diction is a hell of a lot better too, none of the words slurred from stress or anger. His message is clear and concise, and a small part of Petra appreciates that.

Another part of her is wondering who the hell managed to get on a secured Detroit Police Department line.

"This is Dispatch, identify yourself."

_"My name is Connor. I'm the RK-800 android sent over by CyberLife to assist in this crisis, serial #313 248 317."_

Oh fucking  _fuck._

Petra struggles to keep her surprise and shock under wrap, gesturing to Miller across the room to grab another line and mouthing at him to keep in contact with Allen. She patches Connor into a separate channel, one where they'll be able to talk without taking up everyone else's time. Whatever he has to say, it'll be probably be better than Allen's sulky silence.

"Okay, 'Connor', can you enlighten me as to the situation at Park Avenue?"

_"Captain Allen states he is prepared to move in should the order be given. His wish is to save the hostage at all costs. The deviant that has taken Emma Phillips is armed and currently firing at anything that moves. Given their current position, if we engage now there is only a 48 percent probability of success."_

Petra has absolutely no idea how he's calculated those odds, but she really doesn't like the sound of it. 

"What is your plan of action then?"

 _"I've been reconstructing the series of events that have led to this situation. It is my understanding, based on the evidence I have gathered so far, that the deviant is in possession of the father's gun."_

"Hence the armed and firing at anything that moves part, all right." Petra glances over at the television screen, the sound faintly dulled and the entire scene feeling so far away through the glass, even though she can almost hear the police sirens from here and see the light from the helicopter. "What else have you got?"

 _"I'm currently searching the hostage's room for more evidence,"_ Connor replies. His voice is a lot clearer, freer from static than most radio calls are. Petra thinks idly to herself he must be using his wireless interface to communicate and call it in. CyberLife's newest technology, it's shiny new toy. 

It's disgusting, honestly, how envious she is. 

"Some urgency would be appreciated, Connor," she says, leaning her elbows on her knees and glancing over at Officer Miller, who's arguing with Allen on another channel and looks very much like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Deviants' emotional states are volatile."

 _"I am aware of that,"_ he replies. She can hear faint voices in the background, a SWAT team member muttering, ' _that bastard's gonna jump...' ,_ probably picked up by the android's superior microphone, but she concentrates instead on Connor's level, calm voice as he continues. 

_"I was designed to hunt down and neutralize deviants. Their 'emotional state' as you refer to it is an error in their software that resembles heightened emotions. They do not actually feel anything."_

Petra doesn't know why she bristles slightly at that. It isn't the time or the place to argue about whether or not androids can feel. Still, such stoicism isn't exactly...pleasant.

But it's hardly the time for pleasantries, either.

"What else do you have?"

_"The deviant's name is Daniel."_

"Fascinating." 

_"I am detecting sarcasm in your voice, Dispatch. Is this really the time?"_

_Oh, seriously, fuck you._

Petra does  _not_ say that, because she is a detective and a professional and has better things to do than get into a verbal pissing match with the guy trying to steal her job. She is better than that, more grown-up than that.

 _"Is this really the time?"_ she mocks instead, scrunching up her voice into something high(er)-pitched and whiny. Because she is still not too grown-up for that. "Seriously? Less talking, more explaining."

_"In order to explain, I have to talk, Dispatch."_

"For fuck's sake, do you have anything useful or not?"

_"I have to reason to believe the hostage did not hear the gunshots that killed her father. John Phillips was shot twice through the lungs, and once through the kidney. He may have also been holding something"_

How the fuck would he know all that without an autopsy? They hadn't even sent out forensics yet, what with the situation as fragile as it is. This Connor guy'd better be ready to write one hell of a report...

"Was anything recovered near the body?" Petra doesn't even know why she's asking, since he'll probably tell her regardless. Still, if it makes her feel a little less helpless. What do they always say again? Knowledge is power?

There is a short pause, some silence on Connor's end. 

_"A touchscreen computer. He was ordering an AP-700 android."_

A chill runs down Petra's spine at these words. "A replacement."

_"Correct."_

A weapon, a motive, and a murder. Put them together in a pot over low heat and stir - 

At that moment, Miller shouts from the other side of the room as his scanner crackles with static and activity. On her side, too, Petra can hear the frantic yells from the SWAT team inside the apartment through the android's mic.

_"10-99, officer down!"_

_"Holy shit! Cover me while I evacuate him!"_

_"I repeat, officer down!"_

_"Shit, it's Wilson."_

_"He's too far out, we can't reach him -"_

Petra closes her eyes against the frenzy of noise, the panic crawling up inside her throat. It isn't help by the additional voice she can hear over Connor's mic, the desperate screaming of a man with nothing to lose.

_"Go away! Go away, all of you, or I'll jump!"_

She can't do anything at all.

But someone else can.

"Connor?"

_"I need more evidence."_

"You need to get that deviant off the ledge before he jumps and takes Emma Phillips with him."

_"I need to understand what happened in order to talk him down."_

"You don't have the time."

_"Antony Deckart was the first officer down."_

"The longer we wait, the likelier it is someone else will get hurt."

_"The hostage must have witnessed the shooting. Based on the position Deckart fell and the traces of  Thirium 310 on the curtains, the deviant is wounded."_

He's basically talking to himself now. A machine on a mission. Petra doesn't know why she even tries, except that for some reason the whole situation frightens her in a way she cannot begin to understand.

"Connor, you have to engage."

_"...Is that an order, Dispatch?"_

Is it? 

She doesn't know. She doesn't know where he lies in the chain of command, or who's commanding him. Or if he's commanded, or if she says that it's a command if he'll have to obey. 

The thought of it makes her slightly sick, either way.

"...No. It's not." 

Another pop, a flurry of sound and movement. Miller hopping off his desk, yelling commands into his microphone, 10-99's and officers down and dammit Detective, get the fucking machine to do its goddamn job already, and its making her dizzy, the utter helplessness of it all and why can't she do anything about it, how is she so powerless...

_"(What are we waiting for? We should take down this asshole."_

_"I got a clean shot, man.")_

"Just." 

Petra closes her eyes. Tries to drown it all out with one word.

"Please."

* * *

Connor goes silent.

She waits to hear his latest discovery, what further fucking evidence he's collected and the conclusions he's drawn, but nothing. Just white noise through a radio channel.

Then, Miller's waving at her frantically out of the corner of her eye, pointing towards the television. "They're engaging!"

Petra steers her attention towards the screen. The camera picks up a movement in the curtains separating the terrace from the apartment, and a figure steps out just as a blast sounds through her earpiece. A little girl's scream.

"Shit!" 

She can see the blue blood splattered against the curtains, even through the television screen. It's so bright, so lurid, so _awful_. 

Connor, however, merely rolls his shoulder back from the force of it. She doesn't hear him wince, doesn't see him crumple. 

He just glances back, as if he's simply surprised to see Thirium dripping from the decor, as if it's just a scratch instead of a bullet wound. He moves forward.

Fuck.  _Fuck._

The ITM helicopter dives in a little closer, keeping both Connor and the deviant (Daniel, that was his name) in their headlights. Even with the highest-definition television available, it's hard to make out the features of the two androids from a distance. 

 _"Stay back!"_ Connor's microphone picks up what the news crew cannot, and it's suddenly like Petra is right there, right next to them. She holds her breath, unable to tear her eyes away from the screen and afraid to make a single sound.

_"Don't come any closer, or I'll jump!"_

_"No, no, please! I'm begging you!"_

The little girl. Emma. 

They're so fucking close to the edge. The helicopter whipping up their hair, the light from the police cars and ambulances below, what might as well be hundreds of red dots from snipers focusing their targets on the deviant. But the only thing that stands between that little girl and death...

_"Hi Daniel!"_

Petra sees his mouth move onscreen, hears his yell in her ear over the roar of the helicopter, so much louder now that he's outside. His tie is flapping in the wind, his arms raised ever-so-slightly in a calm, non-threatening stance.

_"How - how do you know my name?!"_

_"I know a lot of things about you. I've come to get you out of this."_

Another helicopter swoops across the sky - DPD this time, too close for comfort. The winds it kicks up sends patio chairs flying across the terrace. It scares Daniel, she can tell by the way he holds Emma a little tighter, inches a little closer to the edge.

 

_But androids can't feel fear._

 

 _"I know you're angry, Daniel..."_ Connor continues, slowly walking forward. 

 

_But androids can't feel anger._

 

_"You need to trust me, and let me help yo -"_

_"I don't want your help! Nobody can help me! All I want is for all this to stop...I...I want all of this to STOP!"_

Petra closes her eyes.

 

 _Androids don't_ want _anything. They don't have hopes. They don't have dreams._

 

"Holy shit." Miller whispers from across the room, his eyes glued to the television screen.

Petra follows his gaze, to where the ITM cameras are zooming in, focusing on the stand-off. High-definition, 4320p, color television, picking up the android kneeling next to a figure lying on the ground. A Detroit police uniformed officer, with a dark stain pooling beneath him.

She holds her breath. It's impossible to identify him from the TV, but based on the chatter over the scanner its probably Wilson. New the city, with two toddler sons and a little girl on the way. Who threw a baby shower with his wife last month and invited the entire department, served strawberry cake with pink frosting and polled all the detectives for the best baby names.

Who is now bleeding out, on a rooftop terrace blocks away. 

Petra feels like she might be sick.

She hears Connor's voice in her ear, confirming out loud for Daniel's and possibly her own benefit,  _"He's losing blood. If we don't get him to a hospital, he's going to die."_

_"All humans die eventually. What does it matter if this one dies now?"_

 

_Androids are incapable of caring for those they are not programmed to care for. Empathy does not exist._

 

_"I'm going to apply a tourniquet."_

The entire Detroit metropolitan area must be watching, as the android rolls the officer onto his back to examine the wound. As the deviant fires a warning shot, dangerously close to the officer's head, sparks flashing and popping against the ground. 

_"Don't touch him! Touch him and I kill you!"_

 

_Androids have no concept of death. It is something they will never experience, never fear._

 

Petra holds her breath, her heart leaping into her throat. Danie - the deviant is too volatile. Too irrational, too close to the ledge to risk upsetting. She knows what the protocol is, she knows that the RK-800 android is programmed to save the hostage at all costs.

Even if that cost is another officer's life. A widowed wife and fatherless children.

(But, then again, how could one expect an android to understand what it will never face and never have?)

So they wait. 

Petra curls her hands into fists, her fingernails digging into the skin of her palms, tiny red crescent marks. Waiting for the negotiations to continue, waiting for someone to shoot or fall or die, waiting for Connor to stand up and leave Wilson to bleed out -

_"You can't kill me. I'm not alive."_

Said so coolly, so calmly, so matter-of-factly, as the android tugs his tie from around his neck and wraps it tight around Wilson's gunshot wound. 

Like it's simply an argument of syntax rather than existence, a mere annoyance to correct rather than a denial of one's own consciousness. 

The ITM news camera does not pick up dialogue as it swoops in and reporters jostle to comment on the life of the officer that was just saved. But Petra heard it.

And it rings in her ears, over and over again.

_"I'm not alive."_

_I'm not alive._

 

_Androids are not alive._

 

Suddenly, she can't listen anymore.

Petra rips out her earpiece and sets it on her desk. 

Her hands are shaking.

Across the room, Miller's scanner is still going crazy, but with a purpose now. It fades into the background, just faint noise along with the commentary of the ITM reporter and the far-off police sirens she thinks she might be able to hear a few blocks down.

She watches Connor drop his gun (the fuck did he get that, she wonders, that's a clear violation of the American Androids Act), watches him dismiss the DPD helicopter with a wave of his hand. Watches him slowly approach Daniel, a cool and confident foil to the deviant, who twists and writhes with agony and indecision, the gun and the girl still pressed firmly against his body.

He gets closer, so close he could almost reach out and touch them, close enough to make a dive for the girl if needed, if Daniel decided to fall. For a second, Petra thinks that might be what he's planning - tackle the deviant, pull the girl out of the way, and take the fall himself.

_Save the hostage at all costs._

That's not what happens, though. 

Instead, Daniel's expression changes.

Instead, he gently places the girl safely on the terrace, and Emma runs away as fast as she can, collapsing to the ground a little ways away.

Instead, the snipers open fire, blue blood spraying like a faucet from Daniel's suspended body. Pieces of him break off and shatter, and Petra swears she can see him scream in slow motion. She can see the pain and betrayal twist his expression into something inhuman, something unrecognizable, as his body is bombarded with bullets, as the Thirium drips from his nose, his mouth, the gaping hole in his chest.

_Not alive._

The deviant falls to his knees and stays there.

_Not alive._

Like rigor mortis, a corpse frozen in time, except this is not a real person and this is not a real body.

_Androids are not alive._

The reporters are ecstatic, the crisis "now resolved, an amazing rescue operation conducted by the DPD". Across the room, Miller is turning down the scanner, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, the officer turning to Petra and mouthing, "It's over."

Petra does not respond. She watches the android watch the (corpse?) deviant for a moment, before turning around and heading back towards the apartment, his strides long and purposeful.

Suddenly, she is scrambling for her earpiece again, fingers wrapping around her mic, calling out to him across the radio waves.

"RK-800."

(She can't bring herself to use his name. Not right now.)

A short pause, then an almost hesitant response.  _"Yes, Dispatch?"_

"Can you do me a favor?"

_"Is it related to the mission?"_

"No. No, it isn't. You've accomplished your mission."

 _"Oh."_ Another short pause. For a moment, she's almost afraid he'll close the connection, before he speaks again.  _"What is it that you need?"_

"What does the sky look like tonight?"

The ITM broadcast has long since cut back to the regular programming. She cannot see him at all, has no way of knowing if he'll actually do as she asks, if he'll tilt his head back towards the sky and stare into the inky night.

_"It's clear. Not a single cloud. Temperature is 72 degrees, 0 percent chance of precipitation, 70 percent humidity."_

She almost wants to laugh. Of course that's the answer he'd give. Almost too thorough, almost too eager. Still not what she wants to hear, though.

"Are there any stars?"

 _"Stars?"_ He repeats. Almost confused. But it was a simple enough question, one that wouldn't confuse an android of his echelon.  _"This is an unorthodox request."_

"Please," she says, for the second time tonight. 

And, like any good android, he obeys.

_"There are no stars visible, Dispatch. I suspect the light from downtown Detroit drowns them all out."_

Petra closes her eyes. Laughs a little to herself. Of course. _Of course._

_"Do you need any other assistance, Dispatch?"_

"No. No, that'll be all. Thank you, Connor." 

* * *

Petra falls into her bed around 1:30 AM and wakes at 5:30 AM, when her alarm clock goes off and she finds herself staring at her water-stained ceiling once more.

She registers the taste of salt on her lips, a wetness on her cheeks. 

She tries to remember what it may have been about, but its no use. 

She does not dream at all. 

_**.:tbc:.** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, if you've made it this far to the end!
> 
> feel free to leave any comments and /constructive/ criticism. i'm trying very hard to not make it another "oc is another human detective in the detroit police department who falls for connor" fic, even though i realize it may have started out like one. rest assured, however, i have plenty of twists in store.
> 
> also, if anyone feels like correcting my cantonese throughout this fic (because, yes, petra appears ethnically chinese despite her first and last name, which will be explained) feel free, because what i know the language comes from the internet and my fluently-speaking boyfriend
> 
> also, anyone who catches the inspiration for the title of the story (and the chapter titles) might get a shout-out next chapter
> 
> again, thank you so much for reading, and see you soon with the next chapter!


	2. only drifting on some ship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: some slight description of (android) gore, swearing (including what might be considered a racial slur but its in cantonese and its debatable so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)

**23 SEPTEMBER 2038**  
**DETROIT, MICHIGAN**  
**3RD AVENUE, DPD CENTRAL STATION**

"No. No no no no no no no nonononononono..."

The paper shredder may or may not have just totally and completely given up, and Petra kind of wants to do the same.

"Mother _fucker!"_

She slams her fist down on the top of the little machine hanging off the side of her desk as it sputters, the little green light by it's mouth blinking rapidly before finally going out completely. It's gone. Poof. Good-bye, forever. Amen.

She slumps back in her seat, heaving a deep sigh that ruffles her sweat-soaked bangs, and seriously considers a career change. Forget that deviant that tried to strangle it's owner over in Fast Coney Dogs earlier this month. Between this shredder and the tablet e-reader that actually spontaneously  _burst into flame_  last week, she's pretty sure the technology in this godforsaken department is clearly out to get her.

So wrapped up in her own misery, she doesn't realize that Lieutenant Anderson's rolled his chair over to her desk until he speaks up.

"How's it going?"

"I wanna fuckin' die."

Anderson heaves a throaty laugh. "Join the club, kid." 

It's supposed to be a joke, but it's not. Petra bites her tongue, realizing her mistake the minute she's made it. 

It's 3 o'clock on a Tuesday, and the lieutenant seems barely able to keep himself sitting up. His face looks hot and flushed, his grey hair hanging stringy and greasy, and his ugly striped shirt stained with some suspicious stain she really hopes is liquor. 

But what stands out most of all in this moment is the _look_  on his face, blue eyes rimmed in red. Whether from too much drinking or too much crying, she can't really tell, and it doesn't really matter.

Either way, she doesn't dare to call him out on it.

She pushes away her concern instead, drowns it out with sheer ridiculousness. 

"I'm serious. I'm defeated. I'm going to be crushed by this mound of paperwork and on my tombstone it will read, 'here lies Petra Darlen, death by desk duty."

It at least gets a snort out of the lieutenant, a roll of his eyes. "Dramatic."

"These files go back to like, 2002. They're ancient. And why did they have to use so much paper back then? Save some fucking trees, goddamn." 

She rifles through the folder in front of her, grabbing a random paper and shoving it in his direction. 

"I gotta scan this and copy and file it under all these names. Do you see how many names they have crammed onto this single piece of paper? It just looks like a big block of 'fuck you, Petra.' And this one, check it out, it just says 'Michelle's time sheet.' Michelle who? I have no fucking clue." 

Anderson's starting to look both simultaneously amused and slightly ticked-off now, and she considers that a partial win.

"Are you done?"

"I wish." She tosses the paper back onto her desk with a loud, exaggerated groan. "I can't work like this, man. I'm going to have to change my name and flee the country. Or get myself dishonorably discharged. Do you think I could claim disability benefits due to an overabundance of paper cuts?" 

"All right, I get it." Anderson grumbles good-naturedly, carding his fingers through his hair. "You've made your point, the pencil-pushing life ain't for you. Give it a rest."

"I'm curious, what was the line? The dishonorable discharge?"

"Nah, it was the opportunity you missed to ask 'why Michelle.'"

Petra just stares at him blankly. If there's a joke there, she's clearly missed it. The lieutenant just sighs, and gestures vaguely with his hand.

"Y'know, 'where is Michelle?' 'Who is Michelle?' 'Why is Michelle?'"

"That makes no grammatical sense at all."

"Jesus Christ, do you kids watch movies anymore? The classics?"

"They were showing a Star Wars movie in 5D last Tuesday at the Redford. One of the old ones about the kid who hates sand? Does that count"

"No, it does not -" Anderson seems to cut himself off, tilting his head back and grimacing at the ceiling tiles, as though hoping they contain some sort of extraterrestrial beam that will transport him out of this conversation. "Why am I even trying. What am I doing."

"That's a very good question." Petra replies. "Unfortunately, I am too preoccupied with trying to bring this shredder back from the dead to help investigate."

"Well, good luck with that. I'm heading home."

Petra does not point out that he just got here, and that despite their highly stimulating conversation, he still seems at least three sheets to the wind. Maybe three and a half. She doesn't point out the several tries it take him to rise out of his chair, the effort it requires, how he has to brace his hand on the desk in order to keep his balance. 

She doesn't point it out because it's not her place, and because for all she knows about negotiations and interrogations, she doesn't know how to discuss this. She knows how to shoot a gun and take down a suspect, knows several different ways to hurt people, but has no idea how to begin fixing a hurt like this. There's a part of her that sometimes wishes she did, like she could be programmed to know and say the right things at the right times, but she knows what she is and what she's not, and that is not it. 

(She wonders, for a moment, if an android like that RK-800 unit could. If there's a way to calculate and understand what this must feel like, the ache of a loss that she knows the lieutenant feels every single day, and on a day like today most of all.

Probably not.)

So Petra stays silent, leaning her cheek on her palm and tapping a rhythm with her fingernails against the broken shredder as Lieutenant Anderson finally pulls himself to his feet. 

"Hank!"

They both turn their heads in the direction of the Captain's office. Fowler is standing on the platform outside his door, a cup of coffee in his hands. He looks far from happy, the crinkles in his forehead distinctly pronounced, heavy eyebrows furrowed, mouth twisted into a concerned frown. 

"My office, now."

"Your wish is my command, Your Highness." Lieutenant Anderson mutters under his breath, laughing a little at his own (lame) joke. "See ya around, Petra." 

She watches his back, the set of his shoulders, as he heads across the bullpen. Even his walk seems more defeated than usual, hands jammed into his pockets, not even barking at the rookies to get the fuck out of his way.

The words slip out before she can stop them.

"Hank."

He turns back to face her, weariness evident in his expression. He's starting to look his age. "Yeah?"

Petra wets her lips, a nervous edge creeping into her voice. "There's some sugar cookies on the table in the break room. The ones from that bakery on 24th." 

She stops there, but she knows he knows what was left unspoken. 

_The ones Cole always liked, the ones they made a game of sneaking to him every time Hank wasn't watching whenever the boy visited his father at work. The ones with the clown on the package, the paper that crinkled, the ones that crumbled and left a mess everywhere. The ones with the sprinkles made with cheap food coloring that stained the little boy's hands and laughing mouth and he'd wipe on his father's crisp white dress shirt whenever Hank lifted the boy onto his lap._

She swears she can see the memories flash in front his eyes in a fraction of a second. Watches the fog clear, just for a moment, remembering the child that once was.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the moment is gone. 

Lieutenant Anderson gives her a small, bitter smile. 

"Couldn't think of a better birthday present?"

Petra's frozen for a moment, her mind working frantically to find the right answer that won't break the man in front of her into pieces. She settles on a half-shrug, a murmured, "What can I say, my rent went up." 

It earns her a soft laugh; more of a scoff, really. He says nothing after that, just turns to follow Fowler into the captain's office, taking the cup offered to him and letting the door swing shut behind them.

When Petra goes past the break room on her way out at the end of her shift, she notices the package she left on the table remains unopened and untouched.

* * *

So it goes. Life at the station settles into an almost normal, predictable routine. Petra is good at learning and adapting to new situations, and comes to expect the daily boredom of clocking in, sitting down, and doing busy work for the next ten hours. She orders a new paper shredder, battles with toner for the copy machine, types up reports, double-checks reimbursements, and manages to keep her frustrated screaming to a tolerable volume and confined to the women's restroom so no one calls the police. Much. 

("Um, excuse me, Officer, there's a woman in the bathroom, I don't know if she's on Red Ice or having a breakdown or needs help or -"

"Sorry, ma'am, that's just Detective Darlen. She's on desk duty.")

There's a few bright spots in the dull days of the month of September. Wilson comes back from the hospital and medical leave, all patched up and shiny and new. He gets a standing ovation as he walks back to his desk, his smile shy and his right arm held a little more stiffly to his side than before. 

"Petra," he asks her once everyone has gone back to work, "Why are they all congratulating me? I didn't do anything but get myself shot."

"Yeah, but you came home. That's all that matters."

There's two funerals to attend in the month of September, too. Dark days, rainy nights, parades of black hearses and flag-covered coffins and three-volley salutes. Petra doesn't remember them much. She tends to block them out, she's been to so many they start to blur into each other. The ones for Deckart and the other officer that was shot are only unusual in the fact that there's news vans just outside the cemetery, Channel 16 voyeurs wanting to cover every last detail on the first officers ever killed by an android. 

They don't hold a funeral for the android Daniel, which isn't surprising She thinks they're keeping his bullet-ridden body - sorry,  _it's_ bullet-ridden  _frame_ somewhere in an evidence locker, instead of the morgue, which is reserved for real people. 

Petra doesn't go down to the evidence lockers much anymore, for obvious reasons.

So it goes. 

It isn't until the week after Cole Anderson's birthday that Fowler stops by her little paperwork factory, where she's just about falling asleep, elbows propped up on the table and leaning her chin in her hands. He places a chipped mug of coffee with an obscene amount of cream and sugar on top of a stack of employment verification forms.

Along with her gun and badge.

"Congrats, Detective." Fowler's face is scarily neutral when he tells her this, watching as she jerks to attention and nearly falls out of her chair in the process. "You're back in the field."

"Wha - " She blinks slowly, trying to process this information as best as she can at 9 o'clock in the morning. "For real?"

"For real." A tiny smile now, slow to spread across his face, but lighting up his eyes in a way that speaks of the real and actual happiness Fowler feels for her. "The review board decided to expedite your case and dismissed it. You're back starting today. Unless you'd prefer to stay on desk duty -"

"Oh, hell no, give me that." She snatches her leather and metal badge and clutches it close to her chest before Fowler can possibly grab it back. Just looping the chain around her neck causes her her to feel a strange sense of giddiness at the weight on her chest once more. 

It's only been a month and a half, but it's felt like a lifetime.

Petra glances back up at the captain, her voice completely and utterly sincere when she says, "You won't regret this, Captain. I promise."

"I'll hold you to that." An expression flits across Fowler's face suddenly, too quick for Petra to read before it's gone again, replaced by the same neutrality from before. "We'll be in need of more officers when Halloween comes around, you know how stupid kids can be around this time of year. You're good detective, Darlen, when you're not being one of those stupid kids."

"Why, Captain, you're making me blush."

"I'm serious, Petra." 

There's something in those words that makes Petra stop what she's doing, clipping her holster back to her belt, and look back up at Captain Fowler, who is wearing that odd look on his face again and glancing back at his office. Through the glass windows of the poorly designed office, where there's a stack of folders lying on top of the desk, at least a foot tall.

"Just be careful."

It's then at that moment Petra realizes that the review board didn't expedite her case for nothing. 

Something's coming.

She just doesn't know what yet.

* * *

 **5 OCTOBER 2038**  
**DETROIT, MICHIGAN**  
**8941 LAFAYETTE AVENUE**

She checks her makeup in the mirror at least three times before exiting the cab, her small, thin lips emphasized with a bright cherry red lipstick that costs more than her weekly grocery budget. But it's Petra's signature, something she's made her own over her years on the force, and it's something she never forgoes during a case. 

Suffice to say, she missed wearing it during her stint as a paperwork drudge. 

Once that's done, she slips her case file into her pocket and steps outside into the late night chill, slamming the door behind her.The taxi hums and ambles away, down the street and off to find another passenger to ferry.

It's a rather high-end neighborhood, Petra notes as she walks up the impressively long driveway flanked and lit by lanterns. An attractive brick mansion with a cross-gabled roof, half-hidden from the public sidewalk by a hedge and other foliage for both a pleasant natural exterior and privacy (whoever designed the DPD Station should take note). She can smell roses and chrysanthemumsand hear the cool breeze whistle through the oak trees surrounding the property - if she closes her eyes she might almost forget that she's still in the Detroit metropolitan area. It's peaceful, serene.

If you ignore the half-dozen police squad cars with their fucking lights flashing red-and-blue parked just outside on the street. 

She pulls her file out of her pocket once she reaches the fancy stained-glass paneled door, pressing a button on the small, two-inch black square for the holographic screen to pop up with all the information her primary sent over. The house belongs to Carl Manfred, the painter whose new collection was featured at a new exhibit the Museum of Modern Art this evening. At 9:42 PM last night, his android (an RK-200 unit) called to report a home intruder, and a unit was dispatched to respond.

Apparently, that's when things got messy.

She shakes her head, steps through the laser-projected red crime tape and into the entry hall, a room that looks like it could fit her entire apartment, complete with a crystal chandelier. There's already guys from forensics taking photographs of everything they can reach, and as she passes by them she can hear them marvel at the sheer opulence of the place.

"Those are legit bird androids."

"I could pay for an entire year's worth of rent with one of those things, man."

"Do you think -"

Petra thinks that she really doesn't want to hear the end of that conversation, and heads towards the studio instead, passing through what has to be an an enormous library with a piano and bar cart (and is that a fucking  _giraffe?_ Fucking  _rich people..._ ) and through another set of double doors. 

The studio is messy, and, as expected, full of people. Cans of paint neatly lined up on bookcases, tables covered with brushes, canvases leaning against the wall. Petra registers the distinct clicks of the crime scene cameras going off, faint flashes of light in the peripherals of her vision, and she grins, knowing what's coming.

"Petra Darlen, in the flesh! I was beginning to think I'd never see you at a scene again."

It's wildly inappropriate, she knows, given the homicide, but Petra has the odd urge to hug Jenny Le as tight as she can, even as her friend crouches over a suspicious red stain on the floor that could either be paint or blood in order to take a photo.

When she stands, camera held between her hands, Jenny gives Petra a wide grin, her dyed blonde hair braided and tossed over one shoulder and her dark eyes dancing with delight. "You're even wearing the Shien lipstick! You really are back!"

"I know, I owe you a coffee date. Or five," Petra replies. Being one of the best crime scene photographers in Michigan, maybe even the Midwest, Jenny is nearly always in high demand, especially during the early mornings and late nights when all the gory and interesting crimes happen. With Petra's recent desk duty and daytime hours, their schedules had rarely lined up enough to see each other and catch up. 

"I'll hold you to that. Though, I am a little surprised as to why they called you in. Reed thinks its an open-and-shut case."

Petra blinks. "Wait, Gavin Reed?  _He's_ the primary?"

Jenny nods, and points across the room at a group of three officers standing by a table at the back of the studio. "He's over there, got here around 20 minutes ago just after first response cleared the scene."

Well. Shit.

She scrolls through her file, fingers dancing in the air to find the line her brain somehow conveniently missed in the entire time she'd been reading it - yep, there it is, Gavin Reed, primary detective. 

Fuck.

She'd bet anything that Fowler is probably laughing his ass off right now.

"Nice of you to finally join us, Petra," Reed calls out as she approaches, his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. He's still wearing his patent leather jacket/hoodie combination, and Petra has to bite her tongue to keep from commenting how his mother must be out of town and unable to do his laundry for him.

She's only just gotten her badge back, she can't afford to screw this up. 

Instead, she pastes on a sweet smile, and says, "Care to fill me in on what happened here, detective?"

"Did you not read the fucking file?" Reed snorts, glancing over his shoulder at the two beat cops he'd been talking to before. "There's a goddamn android on the floor over here, what do you think?"

Petra glances around Reed to peer at the figure lying on the ground behind him. Her stomach clenches at the sight, Carl Manfred's RK-200 android lying in a pool of blue blood, arms and legs bent at strange angles, ripped and mangled by bullets and steel frame visible beneath it's clothes and skin.

It's a devastatingly familiar sight, and Petra's mind flashes back to another cold and windy night, a rooftop terrace, and a cool, calm voice.

_You can't kill me, I'm not alive._

Petra dismisses those thoughts with a shake of her head, covers it up like she always does.

"Jesus Christ, did you have to shoot him so many times? We've had seminars on this, people, come on."

The joke lands poorly, she can tell by the way the officers stare at her blankly, as if the idea of using less than excessive force on an android never occurred to them. Why would it?

It's not a real person. 

Reed leans against the table and tilts his head to the side. "It was right on top of Manfred when officers arrived, the son was adamant that it had killed his dad, so Officer Johnson and Officer Stuart responded accordingly."

"So Manfred is dead."

"Yeah. Heart attack."

"How the fuck do you murder someone through a heart attack?"

"I don't know, a Death Note, maybe?"

"I don't understand."

Reed just sighs, like she's the dumbest person alive, and Petra doesn't know why it ticks her off as much as it does. It's not like they've ever held each other in a high regard anyway. But there's something here, something about this case that bothers her, and she doesn't know why.

So she steps around Reed fully this time, crouches down to examine the android's body up close and personal. 

"Carl Manfred's been taken to the coroner already for a full autopsy, Officer Stuart took Leo Manfred's statement and let him go home."

Petra hums to show she's listening, eyes wandering over the fallen android's face. A caretaker model with darker eyes and skin, short cropped hair, a little taller than CyberLife's standard. Records indicated that he was a gift to Carl Manfred from CyberLife founder Elijah Kamski himself, after the painter lost his legs in an accident. 

Speaking of which...

Petra's gaze follows the line of the android's body, noting the obvious problem there.

"What the fuck happened to his legs?"

Reed shrugs his shoulders, a gesture of pure nonchalance, like the mutilation doesn't even bother him. "I guess the son must have been angry and did something when the officers weren't looking. Whoops."

Petra's face must betray her absolute shock, because Reed frowns and pushes himself off the table to stand next to her. 

"What? The plastic asshole offed his dad, I'd be upset too."

Petra closes her eyes, tries to arrange her mind into a series of little boxes, put what Reed just said into one of them, and toss that box off a cliff. Maybe with Reed in it too. Once that's done, she opens her eyes and stands up, wiping invisible dust off her jeans. 

"In addition to his detached legs, the android's missing three different bio-components, but I think only the thirium pump regulator needs to be replaced in order to access his memory. If we contact CyberLife right now they can probably have it brought in within the next half hour."

Reed just stares at her incredulously, as if she's lost her mind. "What the hell do you mean?"

"If we reactivate the android we can access his memory, maybe even footage of the incident - "

"The fuck are you talking about, this case is just about closed. Plastic prick goes deviant, attacks it's owner and his son, owner dies of a heart attack, end of story."

"That's according to Leo Manfred. Excuse me if I'm a little hesitant to believe the story of a someone who was once so hopped up on Red Ice he set his girlfriend's car on fire. And drank five liters of hand sanitizer. On the same day." 

"Are you biasing your conclusions based on the victim's past and irrelevant convictions, detective?"

"No," Petra replies, her irritation growing exponentially with Reed's smug condescension. "I'm saying that we shouldn't be so quick to conclude that this is solely the android's fault. The android was the one who called the police, remember? Who was the home intruder?"

"Does it matter?" Reed's getting impatient now, she can tell by the way he uncrosses his arms and stands up straighter, as if his full height's really gonna intimidate her into dropping it. "I'm not gonna keep everyone here for the rest of the night just because you wanna play Carla Valenti. Manfred is dead, the plastic piece of shit's going to the dump, and I'm gonna go home and watch Busty Asian Beauties on my flat-screen. If you don't have any other stupid questions - "

"You are a first-rate detective, you know that, Reed?" Petra can't even try to hide the disdain in her voice, her frustration just about boiling over. "When there's a case to be cracked, you're just gonna go home and whack off. They should write a song in your honor." 

"Shut your fucking mouth, Darlen," Reed warns, inching right up into her personal bubble. He's cut from the same cloth as dozens of officers in the DPD, exuding such alpha-male superiority, using their bigger stature to push others around and get what they want, never accepting the word 'no' as an answer. 

The thing is, Petra's been dealing with pricks like him for the last five years in Detroit. She didn't get where she is by backing down, and she won't now. So instead of cowering away like she knows he wants her to, she squares her shoulders and tilts her head up to meet his gaze, unflinching. 

"You know that I'm right, that something's fishy about this whole thing, and any detective worth his salt would at least try to - "

"You're out of line," Reed cuts her off, pointing his finger centimeters away from her nose. "I'm the primary here, remember,  _Petra?_ "

He stretches out her given name with a smirk, as if it's just that clever of an insult, a clear show to his superiority. Fucking moron.

"What's your point,  _Gavin?_ "

"My point is, you defer to me. I'm in charge here, babe, whether you like it or not." His anger's turned to a cool, smug sort of predatory leering, and Petra can see out of the corner of her eye the two officers who were first on the scene turn away, avert their gazes. Probably to be able to have deniability in case someone calls HR.

"And, if I recall, you just got off desk duty, didn't you?"

Petra feels a chill run down her spine as she realizes what he's insinuating. She clenches and unclenches her fists, glances back down at the android lying prone on the floor, at the thirium that has mostly now evaporated. He's -  _it's_ already gone, nobody's going to reactivate it, nobody has a use for it now that it's owner is gone. 

_Not alive._

Reed clicks his tongue, obviously noticing her doing the math in her head, and resumes his posture of nonchalance, burying his hands in his pockets and shrugging. "Looks like you got two options here. You can either do as I say and get this trash off the floor and to the dump, or I can tell Fowler you're being uncooperative and get you chained back to your desk." 

He grins a little at that, bottom teeth just a tiny bit crooked. "Unless you're into that sort of thing."

Fucking  _séi gwáilóu_ son of a bitch...

Petra bites back the words she really wants to say, the "fuck you" and to call his bluff, tell him that she doesn't care if she gets put on desk duty for the rest of her life, that her moral code goes deeper than that.

But it'd be a lie.

(To be selfish is to be human, right?)

So instead, she turns towards one of the few crime techs still left, most of the others having retreated into the library during her and Reed's standoff. "Call the Bio-One division, have them come by and take the android away for disposal."

"See? Was that so hard?" Reed taunts as the tech hustles away, gesturing to their colleagues to start packing up. The studio suddenly feels so very empty, when before it was full of lights and people and noise.

Petra just turns on her heel and walks away, ignoring both him and the shame that is welling up inside her chest that she tries desperately to shove down. She tells herself that it's nothing, that it wasn't worth it to risk all her hard work, everything she'd done to get where she was just to clear the name of a - a fucking  _machine._

But there's still something inside her, like an itch she can't quite scratch. She's afraid to reach for it, afraid to what might happen if she pokes at something she doesn't quite understand.

 _(Why does it always hurt to wake up when all I do is dream_ _of nothing at all)_

She heads out of the studio and through the library, speed-walking towards the door, wanting suddenly to get out of this too-pretty house worth more than her entire existence. She's almost there, too, when a voice stops her in her tracks.

"Whoa. Petra, you gotta come see this."

Petra turns to see Jenny, waving her over, her camera half-assembled and stored back in it's case, standing near one of the bookcases, in front of a wall with an unframed canvas leaning against it. Like someone was planning on hanging it up and never got to.

Jenny holds it carefully by it's frame, holding it up to the light, studying the colors and shapes and textures and biting her lip in thought.

"A Manfred original, huh? How much do you think it's worth?'

Petra studies it for a moment. Sweeps of blues and grays, a melancholy picture of a man covering his eyes with his hand. She's never been good at art, never been interested or smart enough to "get" art. She knows Carl Manfred was considered one of the leading figures of the Neo-Symbolist movement of the last decade, but fuck it if she knows what that means.

But there's one thing she does know. 

"I don't think Manfred painted this."

A circle of yellow by the temple. Blue dripping from between fingers, like tears, like blood. 

Petra doesn't understand art, but she still feels her chest tighten at these small details, and knows that she will not be able to sleep at all tonight.

 

 

 

( _Why do I suddenly feel like crying?)_

* * *

 **5 NOVEMBER 2038**  
**22:15 HOURS**  
**DETROIT, MICHIGAN**  
**3RD AVENUE, DPD CENTRAL STATION**

"Captain, I can't enter Reed's reports into the system if I can't fucking read them. Tell him to either start typing his shit up like everyone else or go back to kindergarten and learn how to write, cause this is unaccept -"

Petra stops dead in her tracks when she realizes the the captain is not alone in his office. 

"Hello, Detective." Fowler greets, completely ignoring the fact that her attention's been diverted. "Your displeasure is duly noted."

"Great," Petra replies distantly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as she clutches her papers closer to her chest and continues staring down the android standing in the corner of the room. "That's wonderful. Fantastic."

The android turns to face her, his -  _it's_ LED flickering yellow as it registers her face, the tone of her voice, and whatever else it is androids do when meeting someone new. He stands a little  _too_ straight, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture a little  _too_ perfect when he greets her in a voice that is way too familiar.

"Hello, Detective Darlen. My name is Connor. I'm the android sent by CyberLife to assist the DPD."

Well.

Shit.

"I believe you've worked with it before, right, Petra?" Fowler says, folding his hands on top of his desk and leaning forward. "The Park Avenue hostage situation back in August."

Of course.

Petra remembers. The secondhand roar of the helicopters in her ears coupled with the calm, controlled voice of the android as he pieced together for her the story of what had happened. 

She'd read the report afterwards, only slightly impressed by the manner the android had conducted himself. He'd saved not only Wilson's life, but the little Phillips girl's too. He'd gained the deviant's trust, literally talked him down, said the right things at the right times and managed to keep the casualties to a minimum.

Needless to say, she had no problem reading Connor's report. Partially due to the fact that it was digital and not handwritten by someone with the apparent fine motors skills of a two-year old. 

Now she fully takes in the appearance of the man -  _android_ she'd only previously seen on a television screen. He's taller than she expected, at least a good six-inches taller that Petra herself. Broad shoulders, a strong jawline, well-defined cheekbones. Dark brown hair neatly combed back, save for a single strand that fell seemingly stubbornly into eyes that were warmer than she expected - probably part of his design, she realized, easier to trust that way. 

Even then, there's something about him that's still slightly off. 

Like a picture. 

He's like a picture of a person, than a real person themselves. 

"Right," she manages to regain control of her voice just in time to be socially appropriate. "That's right, I was working dispatch."

A thought suddenly strikes her, and she frowns, the tension in her body loosening as she realizes she never formally introduced herself that night. "Wait, how the hell do you know my name?"

Connor blinks, tilting his head slightly in what she assumes he assumes is a placating motion. "I have access to all the DPD's files, including the employee register and ID photos. I was able to scan and identify who you were through my facial recognition system."

He pauses for a moment, before adding in what Petra swears is almost a sort of dry, ironic voice, "Also, it's written on the breast pocket of your departmentally-issued windbreaker." 

Petra glances down, and sure enough, there it is, _DETECTIVE PETRA DARLEN_ embroidered in tiny white letters on her unzipped windbreaker. She bites her lip to keep from swearing out loud and mentally curses Bethany from the payroll office for her sewing skills and really great Christmas gifts.

"Right," she finds herself repeating instead. "Okay. Cool. Nice to meet you, again, Connor."

"You as well, Detective." He's unfailingly polite, she'll give him that, but the lack of expression on his well-crafted face dampens it just a bit. 

"Actually, Darlen, we could use your assistance," Fowler speaks up, just as she's about to head for the door. Petra turns back on her heel, a smile creeping across her face and a slightly amused tone into her voice.

"You need  _my_ help, Captain?" She places a hand on her chest, as if shocked, fluttering her eyelashes. "I'm honored. Can I get that in writing? Or a recording?" 

"Enough with the dramatics, I'm not asking you for an organ transplant," Fowler says, rolling his eyes. "The android's been assigned to work with Lieutenant Anderson. They've been called to a murder scene on Pine Street, but Hank's nowhere to be found. Any clues where he might be?"

"Did he come in today?"

"Fuck if I know. You know how he is around this time of year."

That's right. Fall has always been a hard time for the lieutenant, a time when they're never sure when he'll show up for work or at all. Not that Petra blames him, she can't even imagine what it's like to be in his shoes.

But she can imagine where those shoes went.

"He's been hanging out at Jimmy's lately. You know, the bar that was almost closed due to the Red Ice trafficking." 

The creases between Fowler's eyebrows deepen. "What's he doing there?"

Petra shrugs. "There's a game on tonight."

"Right, right." Fowler glances over at the android. "Well, there you have it. Jimmy's Bar. Go drag him out of there."

* * *

"Detective Darlen."

Petra looks up from her desk, where she's been slowly packing up and getting ready to go home. She's thrown Reed's report in her inbox to pick back up in the morning, when she might have more brain function to decipher it. She just has to take one more statement from a civilian waiting in the lobby to report a crime, and then she's good to go.

So she's not exactly thrilled to see the android she'd just met ten minutes ago standing at her desk, looking at her expectantly.

"What is it?" She asks, rolling a pencil between her fingers idly. "I thought you were going to look for the lieutenant." 

"I was," he admits. "But I also wished to ask you a question. I noticed an inconsistency with your file when I identified you in the captain's office."

Petra blinks. "Inconsistency?"

"Yes." He blinks as well, a reflex she knows is programmed by CyberLife to allow androids to integrate better with humans, to dispel the uncanny valley effect as much as possible, but all it does is really alert her to the fact that his eyelashes are unfairly long and pretty. "You have an alarming lack of records, including no birth certificate on file."

"Is this really the time?" She echoes his words from months back, ignoring pang of annoyance she feels from this newcomer daring to question her existence here. "Don't you have a murder to investigate and a lieutenant to find?"

"Forgive me." The current lack of nuance in his tone makes it a bit difficult to take his words seriously, but it's what he says next that truly shocks her. "I suppose I was merely curious."

Curious.

_You can't kill me, I'm not alive._

_Not alive._

He was...curious.

 "I was adopted as a baby," she finds herself saying. "Brought to a little town in Nowhere, Ohio, where they were still in the process of digitizing records. There was a fire, they lost a ton of shit like patents and blueprints and apparently my birth certificate. I explained this all to the commissioner when I started working here."

"I see." Connor studies her for a moment, and Petra wonders offhandedly if he has a lie detector built into his butt or some weird shit like that. It'd make sense for a robo-cop. "Thank you for your candor."

"No problem," she replies, giving a kind of pseudo-salute. 

"Where were you adopted from?"

"Connecticut."

She didn't know androids could look momentarily confused, and the sudden expression that flickers across his face almost makes her want to laugh. It's so...human, in a way, the momentary furrow of his eyebrows, the downturn of his lips. It's gone almost the second it appears, but Petra feels a kind of warmth from it all the same, the kind that also dissipates as quickly as it comes.

_"I'm not alive."_

"Really?" He asks, a bit of surprise creeping into his tone. 

"No." She shakes her head, unable to keep the slightest smile from playing on her lips, and leans back in her chair. "Are you going to head out any time soon?"

"Yes, I'm going right now." He stands up a little straight, reaches up to readjust and tighten his tie around his neck, and nods at her. "Have a good day, Detective Darlen."

"You too," she says, without thinking, before wondering if androids can have good or bad days, or if they even register days at all. After all, they have no need for sleep. Is all of life for them just one big day?

She thinks maybe of asking Connor, but when she looks back over at him, he's already heading for the lobby. His strides are long and purposeful, his back straight and tall as the doors slide shut behind them.

Petra finds herself almost jealous, once again, at that sense of purpose. That knowledge of what you're meant to do and how to do it. She doesn't know why she is, or why she wonders if maybe it'd be easier that way. 

Maybe it'd be easier to be not alive, in a way.

She throws out that thought as soon as it comes. Puts it in a box, puts that box far away, on a shelf so high she can't reach it, and dusts her hands off.

Good-bye, farewell, amen.

Then she taps a button on her desk and calls the receptionist android out in the lobby.

"Can you please send in Mr. Williams so I can take his statement, please?"

**_.:tbc:._ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, if you've made it this far to the end and have waited so patiently for this chapter!
> 
> \- me: *works 50-60 hrs a week between two jobs, hasn't eaten a vegetable in days, sleeps about 4 hours a night, forgets to drink water*  
> also me: the fuck do you mean i'm sick this is fake news my entire immune system can fight me
> 
> \- in all seriousness, though, i'll try to be quicker with updates in the future, when i'm not taking a week off due to a cold and then going to seattle for another week
> 
> \- i'm kind of playing around with the timeline of d:bh, mainly because i really don't like the compressed timeline of like five days we get in the game, and i think there's a bigger, broader story to be told here. also i'm trying very hard NOT to just retell the game, so yeah.
> 
> \- also as much as i like d:bh i also realize there's a fuckton of inconsistencies and parts of the story are hella problematic (subtly, thy name is NOT david cage) and that's definitely gonna be addressed/fixed in this story. if anyone has any constructive ideas or criticisms, please let me know! 
> 
> \- in addition to that, i'm still rather new to ao3, so i don't know how the process of looking for a beta works, but if anyone who's experienced with editing wold like to take up the challenge, i'd really appreciate it! i try to go back and reread the chapters and clean up any grammatical errors or plot inconsistencies, but it'd be helpful to just get it right the first time it's posted! also someone to help keep me accountable would be super helpful in getting these chapters in in a timely manner! just let me know!
> 
> \- finally, i was really blown away by the response i got to the first chapter. thank you so much for your kudos and comments, it meant so much to me for something i wrote on a whim after a nine-hr binge-watch of a d:bh walkthrough. thank you so much for reading and believing in petra so far, and i hope you'll continue to stay with her (and me!) throughout this journey! also, be prepared, next chapter is from connor's perspective so i'm super excited to be writing in a new voice!
> 
> thank you very much!


End file.
